#stacked washer and dryer in bathroom

[sakuranym]

Laundry - Closet

A mid-sized laundry closet with white ceramic tile flooring and stacked washer/dryers is an example from the 1950s.

[youngkaezy]

Laundry - Modern Laundry Room

[venomvices]

Laundry Room Laundry

[devils-dares]

Super self indulgent buttt could I get some Carmy Fluff ! Maybe reader calls Carmy over for help with cleaning their apartment/needing help cooking due to executive function issues !! Or vise verse :)

thanks for getting me out of my slump, wrote this in one night :)

wordcount: 721

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You looked at the pile of laundry in the corner of your bedroom. Blinds closed, dirty sheets, cups and plates stacked in haphazard piles.

You haven’t taken care of yourself in days, evidence of it lay in the pimples that mar your face, and the smell of the perfume you wore into the office going rotten on your skin.

It’s time to call in the big guns, you think.

A phone call and fifteen minutes later, you hear clattering around your apartment. You sink further into your bed, embarrassment heating your cheeks, turning you red. A few windows open, and the chime of the washer rings across the apartment. You hear grumbling and movement in your kitchen, he’s looking for the lighter, the starter went out in the stove and you didn’t call to get it fixed yet. The pot scrapes against the metal grates of your stove, and you hear ingredients plonk into the water, he must be making a stew. The floor creaks under the weight of his steps, and he knocks on the door before he enters.

“Hey, Birdie.” Carmy says softly, seeing your back to the door. He straightens out piles of laundry and opens the shades just a little so he can get some light in. “Gonna warm the shower, then I’ll come get ya.” He leaves, and the pipes creak loudly before the showerhead shoots hot water.

He walks over to the kitchen to check the stew before coming to get you. He comes around the other side of the bed and smiles at you, brushing your matted hair out of your face. Extending his hand, Carmy waits for you to take it. The smile grows into a soft grin as your fingers tangle with his, and he pulls you out of bed.

“Look at ya, Birdie. So pretty.” You know he’s a liar, and he’s probably fighting off the recoil from your stench, but he lets nothing slip. You don’t speak, even as he strips you and puts you in the shower himself, or when he sits on the closed toilet lid instead of leaving the bathroom. You don’t dare speak when he tells you about the restaurant, and how he and Syd finally perfected that damn recipe. He doesn’t say anything when you shampoo thrice, or scrub til your body turns red. He doesn’t flinch when you sit under the stream of hot water for a while. He simply grabs your towel from the dryer and wraps you in it before wrapping your wet hair for you. He rubs lotion on your flaky skin and dresses you in soft clothes.

Carmy takes you to the couch, and you notice the first load in the washer is done, the blankets and pillow covers on the couch smelling like clean laundry and scent beads. He stirs the stew and then starts on your bedroom, stripping the mattress of your sheets before throwing those in the washer.

“Stew smells delicious.” You say, breaking your bout of silence since he’s been here. It’s a soft smile you get in return.

“Yeah? Michael’s recipe, called it ‘everything and the kitchen sink’.”

“Thank you, Carm.”

“Always, Birdie.” He clicks on your favorite movie, letting it distract you as he empties the dirty dishes from your room. You’re completely encapsulated in the film when he sits down next to you again, right in time for the ending. You lean forward in your seat, moving your mouth to the words said on-screen.

Carmy smiles. Your sheets were clean, clothes were in the wash. You’d showered and now you’d be eating soon. He did his job, and now he was going to dote on you relentlessly.

“You gotta go back?” You ask quietly, and he shakes his head.

“Syd and Richie can handle it. Marcus made these beautiful cakes, said he wants you ‘round to taste ‘em soon.” He says, making sure you’re thinking about the future and not wallowing in your current thoughts.

“I’ll be by.” You smile, and he can finally have some relief, you’re back in some capacity.

“I’ll tell him. Stew?” He asks, and you shake your head.

“Here, just a little longer.” You say, shifting to lay against him. The tips of his fingers get that excited tingle in them.

“Long as you need, Birdie. I’m here.”

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

mary on a cross - m. murdock

a/n: guys i am so down bad for him. like i need him desperately. what the hell is happening to me. matthew just one chance. also this is dedicated to my friend morgan and everyone who loves matt but he's pathetic and a loser. i also wrote the second half of this fic high. im sorry about that. warnings: mean!matt, loser!matt, relationship is kind of toxic, reader is disgustingly down bad, porn, fingering, dirty talk, lowkey embarrassment kink, use of pet names (baby, honey, pup), smut with an angsty ending, matt burns the reader in a mean way, reader has no description or pronouns but they do have female anatomy! word count: 3.1k summary: you're not sure if matt loves you.. or if he's even your boyfriend. pairing: mean!loser!matt murdock x reader now playing: mary on a cross - ghost "your beauty never ever scared me/mary on a, mary on a cross/if you choose to run away with me/i will tickle you intnernally/and i see nothing wrong with that"

You try to convince yourself that Matt is a good boyfriend.

He—

Wait.

Is he your boyfriend?

You tell yourself he’s your boyfriend, really you try to believe it because he is so damn gorgeous you cannot fathom that you actually have someone like him interested in you.

Really, it’s not like you’re particularly a catch anyways. You’ve only had one boyfriend before Matt, and he never wanted to do much with you other than kiss you. You bake brownies from a box, you have a horrible smoking habit, and you cry over every little thing.

You’re licking leftover brownie batter from the spoon when he knocks on the door. Of course, you answer it. You greet him with a grin.

“Hey, Matt. What’s up?” You lick some of the batter off the spoon, and you watch as his head tilts and his nose twitches. He looks sort of sad and far away, like he’s trying to come to terms with death, or maybe he’s just sad looking. Maybe he looks older than he is and you’ll never know him as young.

A pit in your stomach that sits there most of the day, rocking your conscious and insides back and forth like a storm over a sea becomes warm and light.

What you do know is that you have got to have him.

As you stick the spoon in your mouth to hold it there, Matt listens to the way the metal clatters against your teeth. He thinks about you biting down on his cross to keep you quiet.

“Missed you.” Is all he responds, stepping into your apartment. He notices the way your heart stutters at such a small comment, but he says nothing. He sheds his jacket, then his hat, and he’s just in a sweater and black jeans. “Do I smell brownies?” He almost gags at the artificial smell that accompanies the brownies.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve been spending too much money on little treats on the way home from work, so.. Brownies.” You shrug, and he just nods. Your apartment is small, but he’s been here enough times, and often enough, to know the layout. It’s pretty much a studio.

Your bed sits in the corner of the main room. It’s just a few feet from the doorway, and to the right of it is a small tv on a night stand. It’s just far enough for you to use your bed as a couch. The nightstand hugs the right wall, which has three large windows on it. Most of the wall is a window.

Then, around the corner from the doorway is your kitchen, with a small dining room table in the center. Your bathroom is in the back of the kitchen, right next your washer-dryer unit (one of your favorite aspects of the apartment).

But your apartment is also kind of messy—Clothes scattered across the floor, an ashtray on the windowsill, dishes in the sink, a stack of papers and mail on your counter. Candles everywhere.

You move to light one, and Matt hears the flick of your lighter.

“Which candle are you lighting?”

“Uh, the eucalyptus one I like.”

“Light the vanilla one instead. It’ll go better with the brownie smell.” He tells you as he sits on your bed. His fingers find the soft silk sheets, a suggestion he had made when he first started coming around. He fiddles with the blankets he’s planning on fucking you on, but his head tilts when his hand finds an unfamiliar fabric. He listens as you light the candle, as he tries to identify what it is he’s found. When he picks it up, he hears a light jingle of a bell. Then, it clicks. A smirk plays on his face as he asks, “Who is this?” He asks, and your head snaps over to him.

Oh, god.

“Wait, no, give me that—” You lunge at him, but he holds the stuffed dog just out of reach. You’re attempting to climb over him to grab the dog, insistent that you might be able to be faster, or maybe stronger than him, as he shakes the stuffed dog, tempting you with the jingle of the bell.

“Aw, tell me her name,” He requests gently, holding you back easily with one hand. “tell me her name and I’ll give her back.” You’re not sure why, but you find yourself letting out an exasperated whine.

“Him!” You demand, still reaching.

Something about the way your desperation makes his face twitch with desire.

“Okay, tell me his name, and I’ll give him back.” You frown and glare at him.

“You’re being mean!” You tell him, and before you can stop it, tears prick your eyes. He smells the salt in the air. He needs you.

“Just tell me his name.” He tells you, “Then I make everything better.”

“Fuck you.” You find yourself saying, and his free hand grips your chin.

“Tell me his name.” He demands, his grip tight. You’re ready to get down on your knees.

A beat.

“..Jellybean.”

Jellybean was the one thing you allowed yourself of your old life when you moved to New York. A small keepsake of the person you once were, of the little kid who dreamed of a big city apartment, a fancy job, and a loving boyfriend who was kind to you. You usually kept him under your bed, hidden away from Matt and all the things that you have brought into your life.

Matt was never ever supposed to find him, you just.. got upset last night. You got lonely and reached for your childhood friend, holding him close. But, between work and making brownies when you got home, you forgot to put him away.

Now you’d deal with the consequences of it.

“Aw, Jellybean,” Matt laughs, leaning his head back. “A little pup..” He coos, and he moves it towards you and rubs the soft fabric of the dog over your skin, and his cock twitches at the way you squirm under his touch.

“Matt—” You start to object but he gently hushes you.

“Here. Take it, little pup.” He says, handing you the dog. You take it back and grip it hard for a few minutes before leaning away to tuck him under your bed. He just smirks, leaning back, leaning on his hands. When you’re done, you find yourself climbing onto his lap, and your lips find his.

He kisses you back, his hands coming up to your jaw. His rough hands caress your face with so much gentleness that it almost takes you back. His finger gently rubs the back of your ear, and you hum softly into the kiss. He pulls away just to smirk at you.

“You know, most puppies like it when they get their ears scratched—”

“Oh my god,” You huff, pulling away from him to go walk away. He grabs your wrist to pull you in for a kiss, but you pull away after a few moments. You turn towards your window and pull out a cigarette and your lighter before cracking open the window.

Matt frowns and gets up, going over to you as he listens to you flick the lighter. Without another word, he takes the lighter from you.

“You shouldn’t smoke.”

“Are you gonna give me the ‘it’s bad for you’ talk? I’ve heard it all.”

“No,” He tells you, “It’s much more selfish than that. You taste like cigarette smoke after you smoke, I don’t like it.” That is Matt’s polite way of telling you he thinks it’s absolutely fucking disgusting, and he has been trying to think of a way to tell you that he’d rather swallow nails than taste another cigarette.

“You won’t kiss me if I smoke?” You ask, and he just scoffs.

“If I tell you yes, will you stop?”

“I don’t know.”

“Here.” He flicks the lighter and lights the cigarette, but before you can even inhale the smoke, he plucks it from your lips. You frown, and go to protest, but before you can, he gently presses the lit cigarette into your wrist. He listens to you yell, whine and squirm.

“Matt! What the fuck?!” You whimper, tears filling your eyes. He flicks your cigarette onto the ashtray. His hand comes up to wipe your tears, and you are ashamed to say how easily you lean into his touch. Matt has never hurt you before, but you have a feeling he’s trying to teach you something.

“Does that hurt?” he asks, tilting his head. His voice has an echo of condescension.

“Yes! Yes, it fucking hurts you dick!” You’re mad at him now, and you step away from him.

“Well, lung cancer hurts a whole lot more.” He tells you. “C’mon.” he requests gently, taking your free hand to guide you to the sink in your kitchen. He turns the cold water ends and takes your hand to run it under the cold water. “Aw, poor baby,” he tries to tease but you just glare.

“You’re mean to me.” You tell him.

“I’m sorry.” He tells you gently, his thumb rubbing your skin gently. “Your habit is bad. Do you know what I want for you, little pup?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“What?” you quietly ask the man that dictates the quality of your life.

“I want you to live until you’re one hundred and one years old. I want you to marry someone who will be good to you, someone safe. I want you to have three or four, or even five children. I want you to die old and warm in your bed. And I want you to live that life healthily. Maybe one day you’ll even make brownies from scratch. But you won’t get that if you keep smoking.”

You want to ask him why he can’t be that man. You want him to tell you that he’ll be the one to give you three or four, or even five children. You want him to be the one to hold your hand as you die, old and warm and one hundred and one years old.

But as if he can read your thoughts and he doesn’t want you to ask, or maybe he doesn’t want to answer, and he continues before you can speak.

“The brownies are burning, little pup. Pull them out and let them cool.” He requests gently, leaning forward to kiss your head and then going back to your bedroom.

You decide to take the time to cool down, give him a bit of space. But you can’t be away from him long, so you find yourself climbing on top of him as he lays against your blankets. His hands find your sides, and you lean down to kiss him gently.

“Still mad at me?” He mumbles against your lips. You just hum into his lips, and before you can react, Matt flips the pair of you over, his hand going to your leg to gently caress your thigh, silently asking you—telling you to bend your leg around his torso. You do without hesitation.

He deepens the kiss, finding himself grinding against you, as your hands move to try and pull off his sweater. It’s thrown somewhere else, somewhere far far away. His hands begin to sneak up your top, and he relishes in the way you squirm with giggles.

“Matt—” You whine, and he hushes you gently.

“Be a good pup for me, huh?” He requests, and you nod before he kisses you quick. Then, his hands slip your shirt off, and he leans down, starting to plant kisses down your neck. Your fingers fumble at the waistline of his pants, and he quickly kicks them off before starting to work on the waistband of both your shorts and underwear.

He’s leaving little bites and marks across your skin as his hand finds your clit, rubbing small circles into your skin—Slow, agonizing circles. He’s mostly interested in hearing all your little noses and feeling you squirm against him.

Your fingers tug at his hair gently, relishing the feeling of his teeth grazing against your skin as your fingers threaten to pull his mouth right off of your skin.

When a finger slips inside of you, you start to moan but Matt’s hand comes around your skin. He gently squeezes, and you feel like you’re in fucking heaven. Well, you were in fucking heaven, but your boyfriend-maybe-not-boyfriend lives in a church basement. Maybe don’t bring up God while you’re fucking. Or.. maybe he’s into that.

He pulls his face away to come up and kiss you as one hand fingers you, and the other gently squeezes your neck. As his fingers—two now—pump in and out of you, he licks your limps and recalls his thought about you biting down on his cross. Then another embarrassing idea comes to mind. He pulls away from your kiss to ask,

“You wanna cum, pup?” He asks, and you just let out a soft whimper of a moan. “Aw, I know.. Beg me. He asks.

“Fu—Matt, please.. Baby, please I wanna cum so bad.. Pretty please..” You breath out.

Matt smirks softly.

“Then bark.”

The question takes you out of it just for a moment.. But only for a moment.

“Stop being mean—”

“Oh, stop, I’m not being mean,” He tells you. He kisses you gently, “Just bark for me like a good puppy.” He requests, and your face is flushed. If only your good Christian parents back home could see their baby now, giving barks in exchange for an orgasm.

You bark quietly at first. But your boy is cruel.

“Honey, I can’t hear you,” he says, and you want to bite him because he somehow always fucking hears you. When you bark a little louder,  he just smirks against your lips, “Go on, puppy, let go for me.” He purrs, and you do not need to be told twice. Your legs begin to shake as his pace slows down gently.

He’s not always the nicest, but Matt knows you. Maybe better than anyone ever has. And damn if the man doesn’t know how to make you cum, doesn’t literally make you see stars. Oh, Matthew.. He is like the stars. Oh, so tempting.

After you take a few minutes to breath through your high, you look to the man whose phone number you do not know, and you feel like you’re melting, right under his touch.

And the man whose phone number you do not know and a last name that eludes you, gently presses his lips against your head after aggressively fingering,

“Ready to keep going, pup?” He asks sweetly, and you just grin at him.

“Totally.” You purr. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your lips. Then, he slowly slips into you, and you let out a gentle groan, leaning in so that your lips touch his. His pace starts out slow. He leans down and kisses the skin next to the burn scar from earlier.

Your fingers gently claw at his skin, and with that, his pace quickened, his grip on your thigh tight as he thrust everything into you—all of his frustrations, fears, trauma into you.

“Fuck…” You groan.

“I know, pup..” he huffs happily intro your ear.

And then you can’t keep it in. You’ve been slowly growing addicted to him. You cannot think straight. You immediately know you’ll regret it every day until you die.

“I love you.”

His pace does not slow, it does not stop, it barely stutters as his pace keeps on you. The only reaction you get is his hand moving down to massage your clit, and before you know it you’re clenching around his cock. His fingers massage faster, and without more effort than that, Matt bites down on your neck as the two of you cum at almost the same time.

Slowly, he lays down, right on top of you. He leans forward and kisses your head gently, before he lays his head down on your chest. You cradle him for a few minutes. When his breathing finally slows and his sweat stops..

Then, Matt sits up, and rubs his eyes gently. He slips on his boxers, taking a moment to tilt his head, listening to your heartbeat. He slips on his socks as he breaks that heart in the next six words he says.

“We can’t see each other anymore.”

You stop, sitting up.

“Wait, what?” You ask, baffled. Matt focuses on finding his pants.

“We can’t do this anymore.”

“Wait,” You grab one of his tee shirts and your shorts and slip them on. “Wait, is it—is it because I said I love you?” You question. “Because.. Because I didn’t mean it! That wasn’t an ‘I love you’ I love you, that was-  that was a mistake, a ‘stupid middle-of-sex’ I love you!”

He moves to slip his sweater on and you grab his arm like a child clawing to their parents leg as you get dragged off to your first day of school. He says your name gently, like he’s laying you to bed.

“I just.. it can’t happen, okay?” He mumbles, as he manages to lace up his shoes. You fumble out of the bed and grab his shoulders, then his jaw.

“Matt, please, I fucking promise, I don’t love you!” You whimper, tears running down your face. Matt leans forward and kisses your head gently. “Matt. I don’t love you.”

He doesn’t need his heightened senses to know you’re lying.

“I’m sorry, pup.” He says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Matt..” You say quietly, as he moves to get his jacket and hat, not bothering to put them on as he opens the door and grabs his cane. You make one desperate attempt to pull him back into your apartment, tears clouding your vision.

He doesn’t say anything. He just pulls away from you and closes the door behind himself.

He’s a shitty boyfriend. He always has been, even before that building fell on him. Never enough time for them, always off at work or being Daredevil.

But he has a sneaking suspicion that he’s hit a record low as he walks towards the entrance of the apartment, trying to drown out your sobs.

[moodywyrm]

i just redid my room this week,, and it has me wondering what abby and readers room/apartment would look like !! and if they would have any pets or plants and things of those sorts !!

-🧸

you have just opened the floodgates. I fucking love home decor n decorating shit, I literally went Bonkers when I got to decorate my bedroom in my college apartment.

ok so I drew out a floor plan.

so this is gonna be. a big one. so. jerry spared literally no expense when he got abby her college apartment. sure its one bedroom one bath, but it's got a spacious living room that connects to the kitchen. there's a big ol island in the kitchen where abby got so many stools bc she wanted to fit all of her besties. thinks her washer n dryer are in the worst spot ever, but they're the stacked ones so it isn't as bad as it could be. that lil area next to the patio? her reading spot. she never really knew what to do with the space until she met you, and then it clicked. reading nook. one of your guys' favorite dates was hitting every thrift store you could to find a good coffee table and old armchairs. one green, one pink, one baby blue. she loves them to bits, they're absolutely moving into her next place with her. she literally Made a bookshelf to store all the books you gradually left at her house, and it's become your joint shelf now <3

the sofa is Huge and her dad bought it for her, it's black upholstery. her apartment doesn't have one particular style, just very Abby. I forgot to draw it in but there is absolutely a trophy case in the living room. her medals and old jerseys are on the wall, mixed with your band posters and art prints. her favorite parts are the framed photo graphs of her friends and family, including multiple of you. she specifically picked an apartment with great windows, and this came in so handy when you moved in because the both of you basically have a fucking Jungle of plants. Hanging plants, plant stands, plants on every surface. ur babies. the walls are a kinda neutral white color, nothing super special, but it really doesn't matter when it's covered in so much stuff! plus, you usually have colored lights on (like salt lamps, candles, bluetooth color shifting lightbulbs), that the walls are usually just whatever color you want them to be. the couch is covered in throw blankets, that you brought in. the main living area, bedroom, and closet are all dark oak hardwood-tile, with the softest rugs known to man, especially in the bedroom bc neither of you want to step on ice cold tile in the winter.

the bathroom is a different, simple white tile. the shower has glass sliding doors, that abby absolutely uses to look at u while u shower n vice versa <3 it has a built in tub that u make full use of. the bathroom counter is covered in candles, trinkets, skincare, hygiene products, but all very organized bc it makes abby stress less.

the bedroom. ok. her bed? godly. so fucking comfy. king sized, with the softest sheets ever and the plushest comforter and blankets. satin pillowcases you brought in <3 abby religiously washes her bedding, so it cycles from black to pink to blue every three weeks. the bedroom walls are also covered in art prints and wall hangings, but all of these were picked by the both of you. a lot of it is thrifted or bought from local artists, bc you absolutely drag abby to local craft fairs and the like <3 that chest at the end of the bed holds spare bedding and ,,,, other things ,,,, it is locked. on the wall between the doors to the bathroom and closet is a huge standing mirror, and underneath it is a small table and area for you to do your makeup. gives you top tier fit pics, it is also the mirror abby uses for ,,,, other things. it also! gives u a perfect look at abby while she's working at her desk. above her desk is a huge wall grid/corkboard that she hangs a bunch of shit on. I forgot to draw them in but she also has more bookshelves on the wall across from the bed, specifically four small-medium ones, separated by a dresser that holds a bunch of spare stuff and some of her workout gear that she uses often enough to keep out of the closet.

ok the fun stuff. books fucking Everywhere!!! and cool dishware that you thrifted when you moved in. the kitchen is so well loved and worn in, bc you two love cooking together. the couch is much the same way, well worn n comfortable as all hell, literally one of your favorite spots in the apartment. ur actual favorite spot? the patio. it's beautiful, covered in plants, always burning incense out there, comfortable seating, a beautiful view of the park across the street. u and abby spend your weekend mornings out there, usually bundled up into one big chair while abby dozes and you read, drinking coffee or tea or your preferred morning beverage. the apartment smells so good bc candles and incense and abby's rigorous cleaning. her apartment feels like home for the both of you, carefully curated to be a little sanctuary after long days of classes and practices and just general stress.

this is my magnum opus. I have a problem. I will probably speak more on this.

[iboatedhere]

from that summer prompts list! an spending the whole day at the beach au would be really nice i think :))

Day 1

The screen door rattles as it slams shut behind him, and Alex drops his suitcase onto the worn hardwood floors. 

The cottage is small but beautiful. A little stuffy and warm, but that’s nothing that can’t be fixed by opening the windows and letting the cool ocean breeze in. 

He leaves his belongings behind and does a quick sweep of the kitchen. The basics are there, just as the AirBnB host said. Salt, pepper, oil, sugar. A box of tea and a canister of coffee. Prepackaged snacks on display on the counter. There are water bottles in the fridge and a box of baking soda. He’ll need to go to the market in town and stock up on produce, dairy, and good coffee, but it’s fine. It’s nice.

From the photos online, he knows the bedroom and bathroom are down the hall to his left, along with a small linen closet with extra sheets, blankets, and pillows. There’s a door that leads to the basement where the washer and dryer are kept and the hot water heater, which he might need to reset if the power goes out during his stay. 

The living room is basic but homey. A couch and two armchairs, each a little frayed at the edges, are set around a wide driftwood coffee table with stacks of board games underneath. No TV. Spotty WiFi. Perfect.

He steps out the sliding glass doors onto the small deck overlooking the beach. It’s early summer, and kids are still in school, so the beach is quiet and barren. It's just a little lonely, but it's relatable. 

He shakes his head, physically knocking the dreary thought from his brain. This isn’t what this vacation is about. So what if his boyfriend of nearly a year revealed that he’d been cheating on him for the last six months two days before the trip, and so what if both the flight and the booking were non-refundable. So what if he had to dip into his savings to pay for this. It’s better to learn that Peter is a heartless douchebag now than five years down the line when Alex is pushing thirty and thinking about marriage and kids and forever. So what if it’s brought up the same feelings of abandonment and inadequacy he’s shoved deep down inside of himself since his parents divorced. It’s okay. 

This week is about self-reflection and discovery. He’s going to learn how to be alone and be okay with it. He doesn’t need a partner to be happy. 

Alex leans forward on the railing and watches the waves crash against the shore until a man coming up the boardwalk catches his attention. 

He’s tall and blond; his blue linen shirt is loose across his shoulders and flutters around his body in the wind. He stops halfway, his shoes in his hand, and turns back toward the beach to whistle. A beagle hops onto the path beside him a moment later, shaking the water from his fur and making the man laugh. 

It’s a nice sound. 

The man and his dog continue up the boardwalk and into the house next door to Alex’s rented cottage. He towels off the dog and wipes his own feet on the mat before disappearing inside. 

Interesting. 

Day 2

The town market is small and overpriced, but Alex is able to get almost everything he needs, minus the coffee. 

Fortunately, the market is next to a cafe selling their beans by the pound. Alex buys two bags and a cherry turnover and learns that there's a farmer’s market in the church parking lot on Sundays. 

On his way out, he spots his neighbor sitting on the patio, a book in his hand, a cup of tea on the table in front of him, and the beagle at his feet.

When Alex passes, the dog lifts its head and wags its tail. Alex wants to stop and ask the man if he can say hello, but his hands are full of groceries and coffee, and the odds of dropping everything and embarrassing himself are too great. 

He keeps walking and regrets not stopping the whole way home.

Day 3

Alex spends the whole day at the beach. 

He packs a cooler with sandwiches, fruit, and beer and hauls one of the folding chairs provided by the host down to the water. 

It’s overcast when he gets down there, but by noon, the sun is high and hot, and he slathers on another layer of sunscreen before he reclines the chair and takes a nap. 

When he wakes up, his neighbor has joined him, sitting an acceptable distance away and a bit too close, considering he has almost the entire beach. 

Alex’s first instinct is to be annoyed because what the fuck, but then his neighbor looks over the top of the book he’s reading and makes eye contact with Alex, then looks away quickly, like he’s been caught. 

Interesting. 

Alex stands up and stretches his arms over his head before pulling his tank top over his head and dropping it to the chair. 

He feels his neighbor’s eyes on him the entire way to the water, where he jumps in without hesitation. When he surfaces, his neighbor is watching him again. This time, he doesn’t look away. 

Day 4

“Bone! You need to bone!”

Alex rolls his eyes at Nora’s voice in the background of the call. 

“We're not going to bone,” Alex says. “I don’t even know his name.”

“Maybe you could ask him,” June supplies helpfully. 

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“To know his name?”

“To bone,” Nora says, sounding closer to the phone. “Alex, your piece of shit ex cheated on you. You’re legally required to sleep with someone else. You should know that. You’re a lawyer.”

“I’m a paralegal.”

“Same diff.”

“Definitely not.”

“You did say he was good-looking,” June says, getting the conversation back on track, and Alex hums as he looks out the back door. 

From this angle, he can see his neighbor on his deck, where he’s been fiddling with his grill for the last twenty minutes. 

“He is,” Alex agrees, looking over his long legs and broad shoulders. “He can’t work a grill, though. What the fuck is he doing?”

“Go help him!” Nora chimes in. “You two can eat dinner, and then he can eat you—” 

Alex hangs up and opens the door, then steps over to the far side of the deck, closest to his neighbor, who is tapping the gauge of the propane tank.

“I think it might be empty.”

His neighbor’s head snaps up. “Pardon?”

“The tank. If you can’t get it to light, you’re probably out of propane.”

“Oh,” he says as he looks down at the tank. “How do I fix that?”

“Get the tank refilled.”

“And where do I do that?”

“At this time of night, nowhere.”

Those broad shoulders fall. “Oh.”

“You can come over and use mine,” Alex yells over. “The host said it was full.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

His neighbor looks down at his dog at his feet. 

“You can bring—,” Alex starts, and his neighbor interrupts. 

“David.”

“Your name is David?”

“No, I’m Henry,” he says before he gestures down to the dog. “His name is David.”

“Okay….well….you can both come over. This place is listed as pet friendly.” 

Henry looks down at David, then at the grill, then over at Alex. 

“I’ll be over,” Henry calls. 

Alex nods. “I’ll be here.” 

Day 5 

“You know, you never told me what your friend does to afford a beach house.”

“Oh,” Henry says as he picks up a pint of strawberries. “It’s hard to pin Pez down. I suppose he does a bit of everything.”

Alex nods as Henry pays for the berries, and they continue their loop around the farmer’s market. 

Dinner last night was fine. Henry seemed nervous the entire time, but Alex can’t honestly say that he was playing it cool. 

It’s like they both knew mutual attraction was simmering beneath the surface, but neither knew what to do about it. Maybe Henry is just shy, and maybe Alex is a little out of practice after spending nearly a year of his life in a dead-end relationship. 

He did learn that Henry was a copy editor who could work from practically anywhere. He has a sister who might join him next month and a brother who thinks what he does for a living is pointless. 

Alex kind of hates his brother, but he likes the way Henry smiles when he talks about his sister and friend.

“You never told me why you’re here alone,” Henry says, and Alex shrugs.

“You’re here alone.”

“I’m not alone. I have David.”

“Okay, point, but do I have to have a reason? Is it a crime for someone to vacation alone?”

“Certainly not, but….”

“But,” Alex starts with a heavy sigh. “I was supposed to come with my boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Henry says, sounding disappointed.

“Ex-boyfriend now,” Alex explains. “Turns out he was cheating on me, and all the reservations were non-refundable, so…here I am. Alone.”

Henry knocks their shoulders together with a soft smile. “Maybe not so alone.”

Day 6

The power goes out at exactly 11:59 at night.

“Fuck,” Alex swears up at the ceiling while rain and wind pound against the windows and lightning flashes outside. “Fuck.”

He knows he’s lucky that it stayed on for this long. While he’s no stranger to storms (everything is bigger in Texas), the constant weather alerts and warnings that pop up on his phone, combined with how close the house is to the beach, are making him nervous. 

He could leave, get in the rental car, and go, but when he sits up in bed and looks out the window, he can see the lights on at Henry’s place. 

Of course, Henry’s rich friend would have a generator. Of course, Alex can’t leave without him. 

Alex puts on his sneakers and makes a run for it, skidding onto Henry’s front porch and banging on the door, hoping he’s heard over the rolling thunder.

He hears David bark, then quick footsteps, and suddenly, the door opens, and Henry appears through the screen. 

“The power went out,” Alex says with a thumb hooked over his shoulder. “And I don’t know where the candles are in the house, and I’m trying not to freak out–.”

“Are you bloody mad,” Henry interrupts as he opens the screen door and yanks him into the house. “You could have been struck by lightning.”

“I’m a pretty fast runner.”

“Fast enough to dodge lightning?”

“I made it, didn’t I?”

“I suppose,” Henry says. “Now, wait here.”

Henry disappears down the hall while Alex drips over the hardwood. 

“Should we be worried?” Alex calls after him after a particularly loud clap of thunder. “I’m always seeing ocean homes swept into the sea on the news.” 

“Pez said this place has never flooded.”

“Okay, but climate change is getting worse. Just because it didn't happen last season doesn't mean it won’t happen this season.”

“I don’t think we need to worry,” Henry says when he returns, a towel in one hand and a change of clothes in the other. “But I understand why you are.”

Alex takes the towel and the clothes but doesn’t move from his spot by the front door. He’s not sure what to do with the clothes or with Henry, dressed in sweatpants and the softest-looking t-shirt he’s ever seen. Pillow marks across his cheek and his hair mussed with sleep. 

Alex is leaving in a few days, gone forever, and he doesn’t know how he’ll handle losing someone he’s never even touched.

“I’m going to make tea,” Henry tells him as he moves into the kitchen. “I’m thinking chamomile. Would you like some?”

“Later, maybe,” Alex says as he sets the clothes down on the kitchen table and crowds into Henry’s space. “Is this okay?” He asks as he slowly brings his hands up to cup Henry’s face. 

“Oh,” Henry says, expression falling softly as he nods. 

Day 7 

The storm is over by morning. 

Alex wakes to the sun in his eyes, David curled up at his feet, and Henry’s arm draped over his waist.

“Baby,” Alex whispers, his lips brushing across Henry’s forehead. “We should get up.”

Henry’s face scrunches as he tightens his grip on Alex. “Ten more minutes. Or forever.” 

Alex smiles. 

Forever sounds nice.

Day 371

Alex wakes to the smell of coffee and lips pressed to his cheek. 

He reaches out blindly, smiling when his hand catches the hem of Henry’s shirt. 

“Happy anniversary, love,” Henry whispers, and Alex rolls over and opens his eyes. “I got you a coffee and a turnover from the place in town.”

“You’re up early,” Alex says as he sits up and takes the coffee and the bag from Henry. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“I could,” Henry says as he sits down beside him. “I wanted to make sure I got to the coffee shop before they were out of the cherry turnovers.”

“I would’ve gone with you.”

“You seemed pretty tired,” Henry says smugly. “I thought it was best to let you sleep.”

Alex hums and takes a sip. “I’ll repay the favor tonight.”

“Looking forward to it. Until then, plans for the day?”

They could do anything. Head down to the beach or take a drive up the coast. Get lost in a coastal bookshop or an antique store for hours. 

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. 

All that matters is that they’re together. 

[sleeplittleearth]

@domaystic day 7: stained clothes

Laundry Day | Hob/Dream | 1.6k | G

Dream does laundry and struggles with making mistakes (i'm not projecting, you're projecting)

---

Dream was starting to really settle into humanity.

He'd risen with Hob this morning; he'd boiled water for tea without starting an electrical fire (a mistake he'd only made once before), and toasted bread without burning it (a mistake he'd most recently made yesterday, but it was hardly his fault when he'd been distracted by the sleepy way Hob smiled at him first thing in the morning). There was still a lot to learn, but he was getting the hang of things.

And now, he was going to do laundry.

Hob was away at work for the day, and Dream wanted to something nice to surprise him. He'd watched Hob load and unload the washer enough times that he felt confident he could replicate the process. And the machine did most of the work, anyways. None of the backbreaking work of a washboard or the limb threatening work of a mangle—he'd been party to some of the nightmares that emerged from invention of that infernal device.

The modern washing machine was a breeze in comparison. All he needed to do was load it, add detergent, and push a button. He didn't even have to worry about shrinking anything in the dryer, since it was a perfect day to put the wash out to dry on the line. Hob would come home to perfectly clean, crisp smelling clothes that were precisely the size they started.

Dream began by gathering up the clothes for the wash. Neither he nor Hob was overly skilled at actually putting things in the hamper, so he went around their bedroom and bathroom piling things into a basket—jeans draped over the chair in the corner, shirts forming creases on the floor, socks that had actually made it to the hamper, and the scarlet jumper Dream had helped Hob pick out on the weekend. The colour reminded him of opium poppies, and it made the warmth in Hob's eyes and skin sing. The sooner it was washed, the sooner he could convince Hob to wear it.

When his basket was full and the flat noticeably tidier, Dream gently piled the clothes into the washer, sprinkled in a scoop of powder detergent, and shut the door firmly. He was careful to check that the machine's settings had not been disturbed from the last time Hob did the washing, before finally hitting start and then wandering back to the bedroom to straighten up some of the remaining mess.

He could hear the machine churning along as he worked, the sloshing of water and mechanical whirring providing background noise in the otherwise quiet flat. After a few minutes of tidying, the room was in good enough shape that Dream felt he had earned a break, and he settled against the headboard of the freshly made bed to read (Hob was in the habit of bringing home stacks of romance paperbacks for him from the library).

It felt like almost no time had passed when he was stirred from his focus on the description of some physiologically dubious but emotionally impactful lovemaking by the musical alarm of the end-of-cycle signal. He set aside his book and made his way into the kitchen to gather the clean laundry to bring out to the balcony.

When he first opened the washer, he was greeted with the soft scent of lavender and clean clothes, and he smiled to himself at the pleasant aroma.

And then he saw the clothes.

The darker clothes—the jeans, the black trousers, the soft charcoal hoodie that Dream liked to borrow—they looked just fine. Hob's new jumper looked just as vibrant as it had when they picked it out in the shop. But everything else, everything that had gone in the washer a shade of white or cream or pastel blue, was now pink. Some baby pink, some bordering on a soft coral, some with a definite violet cast, but all undeniably pink.

Dream snatched the red jumper out of the basin as if that would somehow reverse the damage. The bright colour was looking decidedly less lovely now, but he still went and laid it out to dry flat on a towel, switching out the white one he'd prepared with a dark navy one with perhaps sharper movements than the task required.

All the time, he was thinking about what was to be done with the other clothes. The smartest thing to do would probably be to text Hob for advice—a man didn't live more than six centuries without learning a thing or two about stain removal, especially with his history. But he'd wanted to surprise Hob with something nice, not another job. He didn't want him feeling like he was always babysitting Dream; he should be able to do something as simple as wash a load of laundry on his own.

He would just wash them all again.

Not the jumper, of course. But he had plenty of time before Hob came home to run the machine again. Probably a couple times. He briefly considered using the bottle of bleach under the sink—but even Hob had expressed difficulties with bleach stains, and he didn't need to add another problem on top of this one.

So, he went back to the machine, dumped in another scoop of soap, and set the machine to work again. This time, instead of wandering to another room, he sat on the floor directly in front of the washer, staring in at the sudsy water with his knees up and his arms wrapped around his shins.

The cycle passed much slower this way, but eventually, the signal sounded. The electronic melody felt mocking where before it was cheerful—he would be lucky if the sound didn't become a permanent headache trigger after today.

And the clothes were still pink, so back in they went. Third time's the charm, he thought, but Dream didn't hold out much hope for this round either. This time, he slumped back against the kitchen cabinets to wait, staring at the ceiling or his feet more than the washer.

When the alarm sounded again, he felt pain throb in his temples. That confirms that, then. He pulled the clothes from the washer—he was definitely letting his desperation delude him, but he thought they almost looked a half-shade lighter. At this rate, he'd only have to re-wash them a few dozen more times to get them clean.

Neither his head nor Hob's water bill would enjoy that, so he finally conceded defeat for the moment and went to hang everything to dry. Maybe a freak storm would blow through and carry everything off before he had to explain himself to Hob—who would be home soon, one way or another.

With the laundry hung up, he fussed about making a pot of tea for Hob's return, thinking to bribe his way out of some disappointment, and tried to settle back into his novel to distract himself while he waited. No such luck, of course. Every mention of the heroine's blushing cheeks and petal-pink lips reminded him of the Oxford shirts and tennis socks on the clothesline. He chewed at his lips, glancing from the page to the front door and back again, reading the line several times over.

When he finally heard Hob's keys clatter in the lock, his heart rate spiked. It was silly to be getting so worked up—while he was hardly a saint, Hob had been nothing but patient and kind with him over all of his missteps as he adjusted to being human. Even the electrical fire. There wasn't even risk of serious bodily harm this time. But still his heart pounded as the door clicked shut behind Hob.

"Hiya, love," Hob said, dropping his bag and keys by the door before coming over to press a kiss to the crown of Dream's head. "How's your day been— Oh! You washed my new jumper! How sweet."

Hob's face was sickeningly fond, and it was that that broke him.

"I ruined your clothes."

"You— what?"

"I ruined them. I tried to do something kind for you, and instead I wrecked your things like some kind of bumbling child."

Dream was scowling, his eyes burning dangerously.

"Hey, hey, no. I'm sure you didn't wreck anything. I don't even smell smoke." Hob's smile was kind, far kinder than he deserved.

"Come. I'll show you."

Dream marched out to the balcony, with Hob on his heel. Once there, he gestured at the rosy line of clothes.

"See? I wrecked them. I can buy you new ones—or, I will, once I find work, but I—"

"Dream, love, you didn't wreck anything. C'mere."

Hob held his arms open for a hug, and reluctant though he was, Dream went to him, sliding his arms around his waist and tucking his face into his shoulder.

"They're just clothes, Dream. And even if they were wrecked—which they're not, since I happen to look excellent in pink—I wouldn't be mad at you for making a mistake that nearly every human that's ever learned to do laundry has made." He stroked a hand over Dream's hair, squeezing him tighter for a moment before pulling back to make eye contact. "Okay?"

"…Okay."

That gooey, fond look again.

"Okay. Let's go see about some dinner, then."

---

The next morning, Dream rose with Hob. He boiled water for tea (no fires), he toasted bread (only a little burnt on the edges), and he kissed Hob goodbye as he headed to work in his new red jumper, with a perfectly coordinating pink shirt underneath.

He was starting to really settle into humanity.

[stridersdiner]

Bergamot. Oak. Linen.

Three scent profiles that never meant much to you before he did.

Bergamot.

Eau Pour Le Jeune Homme, Maitre Parfumeur et Gantier. Top: Orange, bergamot. Middle: Nutmeg, coriander. Base: Sandalwood.

Like lazing across from each other at the dinner table. Steam billowing over mugs of earl gray tea, cookies that one of the nice old women in town had shoved into your hands just earlier that day stacked haphazardly on a plate between the two of you. Clear vase of purple catmint, yellow coneflowers, and whorled milkweed sitting at the end of the table runner to your left.

His chuckle turns into a snort as he scribbles onto a sticky note, peeling it back and slapping it down next to your mug as he turns his attention back to his phone. He's been doing this the entire time you two settled down at the table. You regret influencing his Instagram algorithm. Messy blue ink sprawls out the yellow piece of paper.

betray, belittle, boytoy

Oak.

Gentleman Reserve Privée, Givenchy. Top: Bergamot. Middle: Chestnut. Base: Whiskey, amber.

Like special occasions. You sit on the bed, watching him rubber band between the bathroom and the bedroom to get ready to leave. You've been ready for at least ten minutes, but he insists on looking his best for this party your parents were throwing, and that meant rummaging through his fancy fragrances. He's never overbearing with it- always just enough cling to him and his clothes. Neck, inner elbows, wrists- always, like clockwork.

He has no idea what the fancy words on the bottles mean, but he does know that he doesn't want to smell like anything resembling 'toilet', so eau de parfum is the next best thing. You can catch wafts of it lingering in the air as he moves, before he finally stands proudly before you, hands on his hips, and a proud wide-toothed smile on his face.

"Y'ready?"

Linen.

Lin Blanc, Jeanne en Provence. Top: White flowers, pear. Middle: Lavender, cotton. Base: Vanilla, white woods.

Like freshly dried sheets. He dedicates Sunday to laundry day. The washer and dryer in the house are still pretty new and practically pristine, but he will always air out and pin up the bedsheets and pillowcases on the clothesline like Ma did when he was younger. It makes him feel better to shake them out and flatten them out against the line outside in the backyard- nostalgic, really.

Sometimes he lays down in the grass beneath them after a few hours. He stares up at the bright blue sky. Sheets dance along the cool breeze, like the fluttering fabric of a waltz. You watch curiously through the window the first few times, and eventually, you convince yourself to go outside and lay next to him.

And he welcomes you happily.

"That cloud looks like a cow."

Bonus.

The Most Wanted, Azzaro. Top: Cardamom. Middle: Toffee. Base: Amberwood.

He pulled the bottle out of the box and buried it in his sock drawer in the walk-in closet. You're half sure he got it just because it looks like a revolver cylinder. You've test-sprayed it on your wrist before- sickly sweet caramel, strangely spiced- and you scrunched your nose at it. He laughed from the doorway.

It was supposed to "settle," he had said. Whatever that means. It had been maybe a month since he hid it away, so imagine your surprise when he finally pulls the bottle out. You cringe a little as you recall the scent while he mists it onto the collar of his button down, watching the fragrance just hook onto the fabric. He chuckles at your expression as he affixes one of his watches to his wrist. You take a half step back as he comes towards you, but the smell isn't nearly half as bad nor domineering as it first was- suddenly subtly sweet and tangy. He simpered as your expression mellowed.

"Better now, ain't it?"

Babes that wanted to be tagged:

@mockerycrow @kivino

[spookyboywhump]

More Eve!!!!! This is her coming home + her first major injury :3c From here it’ll probably stop being chronological whatever I post with her and instead spaced out whenever just for funsies

Word Count: 2,240

CW: pet whump, dehumanization, burning of the whumpee

***

The girl looked around her new home curiously, her hands clasped together behind her back. From the moment they walked through the doorway she was overwhelmed by how neat and pristine everything looked, like the modeled rooms of a furniture store. She didn’t want to risk touching anything, like she would somehow break or dirty something just by putting her hands on it.

The woman, who had explained her name was Natalia Fairfax, but she could only refer to her as Miss, or Miss Fairfax, led her from room to room, a living room with a large television mounted on the wall, a well stocked kitchen and adjoining dining room, an office with bookshelves full of more books than she’d ever seen outside a store or library. Upstairs was Natalia’s bedroom, the guest bedrooms, and the guest bathroom. They were about to walk back downstairs when she finally spoke up, her voice soft and timid.

“Uh- um, Miss Fairfax…?” She asked hesitantly.

“Yes, what is it?” She paused with her hand on the staircase railing.

“Which room will be mine? I-I just want to make sure I ask before it gets too late-“

“Room? You think that pets get rooms?” There was that hint of a smile again, she was amused by what she thought was a simple question. “No, I’m sorry to say that I don’t spoil my pets. Bedrooms are for people, come with me downstairs and I’ll show you where you will sleep.” She told her.

“Yes ma’am…” She followed her back downstairs, being mindful to hide her disappointment. She knew that not all owners were as kind of generous as others, but it still hurt a little, she’d been so hopeful about sleeping in a real bed after so long on a concrete floor or uncomfortable cot.

In the kitchen there was another door aside from the one that led to the pantry, she hadn’t questioned it the first time they went through there. Natalia opened it up and turned a light on, leading her down another flight of stairs into the basement. Each step down made her more and more nervous, she’d always hated going down into the basement as a child, there were always spiders in the house she grew up in, and before she’d been bought she’d heard so many horror stories about owners with whole torture rooms in their basements, not unlike the training rooms she hated so much.

As they actually entered the main part of the basement, she saw it wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d been expecting, nothing special but clean, no weapons of torture in sight, just a nice washer and dryer, some racks containing extra household items and cleaning supplies, what looked like a closet for extra space, and some storage containers stacked up against the wall. She let out a sigh of relief, she almost felt silly for being so afraid.

“I hope you know how to do laundry, you’ll be responsible for all of it now as part of your chores.” Natalia said, and she nodded quickly.

“Yes ma’am, I can do that.” She assured her.

“Good, and you’ll be sleeping in there.” She said, gesturing to the closet door. “I’ve already left some things you’ll need in there, but I’ll have to do something about getting you more clothes and properly fitting shoes.” She said, looking her over, it felt like she was scrutinizing every aspect of her appearance. “You can take a look and take some time to rest if you need to, come find me upstairs when you’re ready.” She told her, and she nodded again. She watched her go back upstairs, waiting until she heard the door at the top shut before she finally relaxed. Natalia put her on edge, she was very cold and her eyes were intense no matter how she looked at her, she felt like one wrong move would get her in big trouble.

Now that she was alone, she went to check out what was supposed to be where she slept. It looked like a closet that had been cleaned out just for her, it was big enough to walk into, probably big enough to comfortably lay down in, but rather narrow. The shelves were almost empty, aside from some folded up blankets, a pillow, and a digital alarm clock.

She looked around the basement a little bit longer, getting herself familiar with another part of the house she’d be working in. Finally, she went back upstairs where she found Natalia in her office. She looked up from her laptop when she entered the room, giving her a disapproving look.

“You’ll want to knock before entering a room unless I’ve called you inside from now on. Go ahead and come here though.” She said, pushing her chair back from her desk. Nervously, she walked over to her, and after Natalia gestured to the floor, she dropped to her knees. “I need to get you a new collar, which means you’ll get a name tag with it. I’ve been thinking about the name Eve for you.” She told her.

“Eve…?”

“Yes. It’s short, but I think it’ll fit you nicely. I expect you to respond immediately when I call your name, do you understand?” She’d been anxious about what Natalia may choose to name her, she’d heard of all kinds of demeaning and humiliating names pets had gotten stuck with, but Eve… she thought it was pretty, she felt lucky even.

“Yes ma’am.” Eve told her, accepting her new name without complaint. She wouldn’t say she had no attachment to her actual name, but she’d happily take this over anything insulting.

“Good girl.” Natalia smiled at her. “As long as you obey me and do your job here well, then you should be fine. I intend to keep you only as long as you’re useful, but you seem like you’ll last a while.” Eve chose to take that as a compliment, she wanted to last a while, forever even. After all, she didn’t want to find out what Natalia did with pets that were no longer useful.

***

Eve settled down n and tried to adapt to the rules here quickly. She learned the hard way the first morning he woke up in the house that Natalia would allow her to learn to cook, but that she should learn quickly as she wouldn’t be allowed to eat anything she hadn’t prepared. Natalia had put instructions for making breakfast on the counter and told her to start learning or go hungry, and sadly, she was not a natural in the kitchen. For the first few weeks her diet consisted primarily of burnt toast and overcooked eggs, most of the other food she messed up wasn’t even edible.

The rest of the chores were easy, but exhausting on a nearly empty stomach. She cleaned her mistakes in the kitchen multiple times a day and tended to the upkeep of every single other room in the house. She felt like she was cleaning before the mess could even be created, but she supposed this was just what was necessary to keep a home like this looking as picture perfect as it was.

She didn’t think it would be hard, only Natalia lived there after all, but with the amount of things that needed to be done every single day, she hardly had a moment to herself until she was allowed to go to bed. That alarm clock would go off at five thirty every morning, when she would have to get up and start everything over again.

After nearly two months there, her skills with breakfast had improved immensely, she could make a variety of things now and she felt more confident in her abilities there, but dinner was causing her to struggle. She was always overwhelmed, there were always so many things to do at once and it never came out right. She’d usually end up going to bed hungry after Natalia scolded her for messing up again.

She’d been punished for some of the most ruined meals, made to kneel on dry rice for two hours after she mistakenly burnt the rice for dinner, salt rubbed into preexisting cuts and scrapes when she seriously over salted one meal, she never resisted the punishments and as she cried, Natalia would tell her she would know better next time now, she wouldn’t have to repeat this, and she’d keep those punishments in the back of her mind whenever she went to start preparing another meal.

The worst of it came late one evening. She’d fallen behind on her chores so dinner was running late, and though Eve was doing her best, she was in a hurry and things were not going well. The chicken she’d been cooking in one pan had clearly burnt and there was no going back from that and the water she was trying to boil for pasta seemed like it would never reach a boiling point. She kept stirring the sauce in the pot on a back burner, anxiously biting her lip as she knew there was no way in which this could end well for her. She froze as she heard footsteps entering the room, Natalia approaching her.

“Again, Eve?” She asked, sounded exasperated.

“I-I’m sorry ma’am, I’m sorry, I was trying but there was just-“

“I don’t want to hear your excuses!” She snapped at her. She shoved her away from the stove, looking over the damage she’d done this time. “I feel I’ve been more than patient with you and yet you continue to fuck up completely simple tasks, I’m starting to wonder if you’re even worth keeping around!” The comment felt like a punch to the gut, Eve’s heart pounded in her chest, sweat pricked at the back of her neck and suddenly the spacious kitchen felt much smaller, much hotter, she thought she was going to be sick.

“N-no!” She blurted out. “No, please, I promise I’ll do better, please punish me, give- give me more time, I’ll do better!” She insisted, tears welling up in her eyes. She didn’t know what would happen to her if Natalia decided she wasn’t worth keeping around, she didn’t know if they’d take her back and let her work again or if they’d finally just put her down and get it over with. Natalia just looked even angrier with her, her hand wrapped around the handle of the pot of hot water.

“You do not tell me no.” She said through gritted teeth. Eve took a step back, she knew she was in danger, she hadn’t seen Natalia this angry before.

“I’m sorry…” She whimpered. Apologies meant nothing to Natalia though, and she knew that, it had never helped her before, but Natalia’s punishments were always strategic and thought out. She didn’t take even a second to think about this, she lifted the pot from the stove in one quick movement and splashed the hot water onto her, eliciting a shriek from Eve as she instinctively turned away to protect herself.

She didn’t throw the whole pot of near boiling water on her, but it was certainly enough, and she’d only managed to protect her chest and stomach from getting the worst of it. The right side of her body was still soaked, searing pain from her shoulder all the way down her leg, she could feel it in her ribs, her shorts wet and sticking to her thigh, she desperately shook water off her arm as she cried, stumbling towards the sink for cold water.

“H-hot, it’s really hot, please- please help me, I’m sorry ma’am, I’m sorry, please help!” She cried, trying to run cold water from the faucet over her arm but it just wasn’t enough, too much of her body felt like it was on fire for just the kitchen sink to help her, her legs were shaking and all she could think of was how badly she needed the pain to stop.

“Why should I? You brought this on yourself.” Natalia said, glaring at her.

“Please!” She sobbed, collapsing against the counter, barely managing to hold herself up by gripping onto the edge. After a moment Natalia sighed heavily, she stormed over and opened a drawer next to the sink to get a hand towel before shutting the water off. She used the towel to dry off the remaining water on her, she was so rough in doing so it caused Eve to start screaming again.

“Quiet! I’m trying to help you but I won’t if you’re going to keep shrieking in my ear!” She hissed, and Eve bit down on her lip, whimpering pitifully as she tried to keep quiet. Natalia took her arm in her hand, looking over the damage done with a scowl on her face. “I think you’re going to need to see someone for this.”

“Like… Like a doctor…?” She asked.

“Yes, a doctor.” She said it like Eve was stupid. “Not the kind you’re used to I’m sure.” Eve didn’t know what she meant by that, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.

She assumed if she was going to see a doctor, she’d be given treatment, even time to recover. She was already praying that it wouldn’t take too long, Natalia was being gracious enough to get her seen at all, she just hoped she intended to keep her afterwards.

[juniper-sunny]

The Art in the Heart - Chapter 4

Silco’s not exactly an uninvited guest, but your first sleepover together is still much more than you bargained for…

Everybody Lives AU | Pre-Act I | Silco x Reader | Female!Reader | Slow Burn | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Mild Angst || SFW | WC: 1.95k

ao3 || Masterlist || Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

taglist: @sherwood-forests @deny-the-issue @let-the-monster-out

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Silco insists that he shouldn't impose on you repeatedly during the entire walk. You threaten him at umbrella-point, and he finally accepts.

The studio apartments of the Cliffside Promenade housing complex are modest by Topside standards. Their true appeal is in their location: smack dab in the middle of the Promenade. It’s prime real estate for Zaunites like you who have to make frequent trips to Piltover, but don’t want to stray too far from your roots. 

When you and Silco cross the threshold, he accidentally kicks over a jar full of paintbrushes. 

“Oops, sorry about that,” you wince. 

“The fault is all mine,” he says. He gropes for the brushes in the dark while you flip the lights on. 

Crap. Your apartment isn’t in the best state to be hosting guests.

It’s been a while since the last time you deep-cleaned. There are jars and mugs everywhere, mostly filled with paintbrushes. Some hold paint tubes, metal cylinders for pneumatic tube deliveries, or eating utensils. A pneumatic tube receptacle is mounted on the southern wall next to the front door. Your small single bed is shoved up against the western wall, and a large wardrobe stands at the foot of it. The door to the bathroom is on the northern wall. To the east is a bay window and all your secondhand appliances: a stove, dishwasher, small refrigerator, and a stacked washer-dryer. Instead of dining room furniture, you’ve made room for easels of multiple sizes and a drafting table. Too much space is being dominated by wooden crates filled with canvases. The only chairs you own are a pair of chipped wooden stools. 

Everything is covered in speckles and smears of paint, contributing to the feeling that there’s a slightly grubby patina over everything. 

You glance at Silco, wondering if he’ll comment on the shabbiness on display. He scans the room thoughtfully, as if taking the time to formulate a proper opinion. 

“Where would you like this?” he asks. He holds out the jar of paintbrushes.

“Thanks, I’ll take that,” you set it down on the floor again. “Can you wait here a second?”

Silco nods. You drop the umbrella, pull off your boots, and hurry to your bathroom. You return with a large towel and hand it to him. 

“Thank you,” he smiles. He starts drying his hair. “Your home is quite the epitome of coziness.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you say. “I got some ground rules for you.”

He stops rubbing his hair and drapes the towel around his neck. 

“Take off your clothes.”

He tilts his head. “Pardon?”

“Shit, sorry,” you say hastily. The excitement of the night is catching up to you. Weariness is starting to pull at your bones. You stifle a yawn before elaborating. “You’re dripping all over and I don’t want you to get anything wet. I’ll put your clothes in the dryer, and they’ll be ready by morning. I’ll find something for you to wear in the meantime.”

“Sounds reasonable enough.” 

“You should wash up too. Don’t want you catching a cold.” 

“That won’t be necessary. You’re being too generous as it is—”

“There’s no point in getting you dry if you’re still cold. Besides, the hot water is unlimited! It’s awesome.”

It’s such a mundane thing to enthuse about, but you’re trying to keep your energy up. 

“And shoes off, by the way,” you add as an afterthought. 

As Silco kneels down to unlace his boots, you put yours away in the wardrobe. He wraps the towel around his shoulders and strides into the bathroom. Discarding his backpack on the floor.

You use your stockinged feet to wipe up the trail of water behind him. 

At this point in the night, you’d toss your purse onto a stool. However, you're conscientious of its precious cargo and instead place it carefully underneath your table. 

He calls out your name from behind the bathroom door.

“What’s up?” you ask. 

“Would you like to take my clothes now or later?”

“I’ll take them right now, thanks.”

“Not at all.”

When he cracks open the door, you expect him to toss his clothing onto the floor. Instead, he holds them out for you to take. 

You’re reluctant to approach. 

Because you’re trying not to think about the fact that he’s naked. And in your home. 

Oops. 

You’re glad the door isn’t open enough for him to see your reddening face. After you take Silco’s clothes from him, he shuts the door and turns on the shower. With long exhale, you shove his clothes into your dryer and start a cycle.

You pull your bed drawers open and locate a pair of boxers. For outerwear you pull out your largest smock and sweatpants. After judging that they’re clean enough, you fold them and place them on a stool. Setting them outside the bathroom.

You don’t currently have a lover; you’d tell him if he asks, but would he believe you? The boxers belonged to an ex who couldn’t be bothered to pick them up. 

You shake your head at yourself. Why would it matter if he believes you or not? You’re not even friends.

What are you to him, then? Wouldn’t he consider you a friend after all the favors you’ve done for him?

Ugh. You’re letting your mind wander too much because you’re too tired. You slap your cheeks to stay awake. 

It’s with a sigh of relief that you undress and pull on your sleepwear. Shaking out your hair helps soothe some of your pent-up tension. Bedtime can’t come soon enough.

The shower shuts off. Silco opens the door to call out to you, but stops when he spots the clothing you’ve set out for him. He grabs them and shuts the door again.

When he finally comes out, he finds you staring at your bed where you’ve laid out the contents of your purse. The spoils of your heist. 

“How was the water?” you ask without looking up. 

When he doesn’t answer, you turn around. 

Some invisible force seems to be holding him in place. His eyes are wide and unblinking, and his mouth has fallen slightly open.

“Are you okay?” you ask, frowning. 

“I’m fine,” he chokes out. “I’ve never seen you with your hair down before. You look nice.”

“Oh… thanks,” you blush. 

It’s interesting when Silco uses simpler words to speak more candidly. That’s probably the closest he gets to carelessly blurting out what he’s really thinking. 

Now it’s your turn to give Silco a once-over. In all the occasions you’ve seen him, he’s demonstrated a preference for fitted clothes that show off his lithe but muscled frame. Right now, his outfit is just a little too loose, but it somehow smoothes out the sharp angles of his body into something softer. 

“The water was perfect,” he answers you belatedly. “I’m tempted to steal these clothes from you with how comfortable they are.”

“Go ahead,” you chuckle. “As if you don’t owe me enough favors already.”

“That’s very true,” he stands next to you and stares down at the documents.

To be more precise, they’re pictures of the documents you found in Salo’s office. Taking the original articles would have been too suspicious.

“Congratulations on a job well done,” Silco claps a hand on your shoulder, beaming with pride. “What would you say to joining me on my future ventures?”

“Piss off,” you groan and rub your eyes. “Just tell me exactly what tonight was all about.”

He moves his hand off your shoulder to hold his chin. As he scans the snapshots, he hums in thought. Lifting several photos and studying them carefully.

You already knew his hands were huge, but you notice for the first time how thick his fingers are. And yet he moves them so delicately—

“The councilor’s shipping manifests were the most critical,” he explains. “Then, visual confirmation of what the cargo looks like, and finally, the shift schedule of the warehouse staff. We need all of these to proceed with our schemes.” 

“Who’s ‘we’?” 

“Oh, I never mentioned it? The Children of Zaun,” he states grandly, puffing out his chest.

Your previous conversations with him are completely recontextualized. The rebel group is at the forefront of the Undercity independence movement. Only the loudest and proudest Zaunites are allowed to join. If Silco is one of them, then it makes sense that he would have taken personal offense at you mentioning Piltover in any kind of positive light. 

While you’ve always admired the Children from afar, you’re suddenly seized by concern— no, by fear.  

That he shares the Children’s reckless tendency to throw themselves into dangerous situations for the slightest opportunity to strike at Topside. At the risk of bodily injuries or death.

“Silco, what exactly are you planning?” you ask quietly. 

“We received reliable intelligence that a shipment of weapons— no, bullets— will be arriving very soon,” he says. He taps a photo with a knuckle. “The receiving party are the Enforcers. We plan to liberate the cargo in order to quite literally disempower them.”

You might not be a fan of Councilor Salo, but you know he’s smart enough to have all his ports staffed with armed guards. If the Children are only going to be equipped with the Undercity’s inferior firepower—

It’s too daunting to think about.

You squeeze Silco’s wrist. “I can’t let you have these.”

He stares at you, incredulous. His grip on the photos tightens. 

He wants to argue with you again. You try to summon all the determination you have, but—

Your vision goes watery. You rub furiously at your eyes. 

Silco’s face softens. He clears a space on the bed, taking a seat.

“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly. 

“Nothing,” you mutter furiously. “Just— got something in my eye.”

He looks at you knowingly. Gesturing for you to sit. 

“Talk to me.”

You flop down next to him, fisting your hands in the blankets. There’s no way you’re going to admit the truth— that you’re scared. Maybe it’s exacerbated by your exhaustion, but the worst-case scenario is freaking you out: if their mission fails, Silco could die. If nobody knew to let you know, it could be ages before you found out for yourself.

Hell, if “Silco” isn’t his real name, then you’d have no real way to track him down. 

He’d become just another friend who left you. Alone.

You try to clear the lump in your throat. 

He waits patiently for you. As if he had all the time in the world.

“Aren’t you scared? You could get killed,” you finally manage to grunt out. 

“Every one of the Children is prepared for death. It’s something we all embrace, sweetheart,” he says. “Any one of us would be proud to die for the cause. If it happens it should be a cause for celebration, not mourning.” 

That his ideals are so extreme doesn’t surprise you, but it still takes a monumental effort to keep from flinching.  

If you weren’t so drained, you’d give him a piece of your mind. 

“I want to cash in a favor,” you declare. “Maybe two.”

“If it’s within my power, it’s all yours,” he vows.

You swallow hard. Determined to be as articulate as possible. There can’t be any room for doubt here. 

You turn to face him head on. 

“Promise me that no one will get hurt.”

He’s taken aback. His eyes tick wider, but he doesn’t break eye contact. He opens and closes his mouth, struck dumb for the third time that night.

You stubbornly hold your gaze, fighting the urge to blink. 

“I mean it. Please.”

That word breaks something in him. 

“Okay,” he replies. “I promise.”

Chapter 5

[doom-dreaming]

Blue Team Beach House: Entry, Kitchen, Laundry

Now that we've looked at some of the design considerations from the outside, we're ready to head indoors! I feel like I'm on an HGTV show.

Right inside the front door (which, like most of the doors in this house, is tall and has a window feature - again, sight lines are important), we have the entryway. It's wide enough that it doesn't feel cramped, but still has plenty of storage space for things like keys, books, jackets, shoes, and exercise equipment (including but not limited to: Kelly's running kit and Linda's yoga mat). Which brings us to this post's first Design Consideration: Efficient Storage.

There's a place for mail and a mirror to double-check that they look sufficiently rugged and intimidating before they go out in public. Eventually there will be pictures in those frames. The holo-panel by the front door is the manual control hub for the dumb AI that runs the house's utility systems. (I'm still undecided on a name for it. I'd take suggestions.)

The color palette of the entryway more or less informs the theme for the whole house; various shades of blue and natural wood. Light floors and ceilings contrast with the dark blue walls and keep things from feeling too closed-in.

Directly in front of the entry is the kitchen and it's a straight shot through to the laundry area (but we'll get there in a second). Also, remember what I said about edible plants?

An indoor herb garden! Right around the corner from the entry, and just a few steps away from the kitchen (it's all open-plan anyway) there's fresh basil, sage, parsley, grapes, mushrooms, and garlic. Linda has assigned herself to plant care, she likes the routine of checking in on them every morning. (Quick shoutout to the moveobjects cheat for allowing me to sink those huge clunky vertical planters into the wall a bit, they look so much better that way.) Behind that door is a little shotgun bathroom, but that's for a different post.

The kitchen is spacious (as it needs to be when you have up to four huge people in it at once) with plenty of room to move around. Again, the coloring is light, mostly blond wood and white (easy to clean, as Kelly is so helpfully demonstrating) with the exception of the appliances, which add a balance of dark and/or colorful accents.

Utensils, knives, and pans are wall-mounted to free up counter space and there are so many cabinets and drawers for storage.

The decor throughout the house focuses mostly on wood and glass as its main elements, but there are industrial touches, seen here in the hanging lamps over the bar island and the brushed metal backsplash. (Player note: I added the blue floor light strips 1) because Halo is sci-fi and this house needed at least a little of that and 2) because the abrupt switch from wood to tile looked weird without a border.)

Instead of a traditional dining table, there is a long bar with additional storage under the countertop. Again, the seating is sturdy and stable and matches the muted dusty blue of the walls and framing of the overhead lamps, adding some color to an otherwise very earthy palette. The hallway behind the kitchen wall provides a way to access the two downstairs suites (Fred's and Kelly's) in a way that doesn't involve cutting through the kitchen. Neither of those doors are in the hallway, and as such can be seen from multiple angles on the ground floor, reducing blind spots to points of entry and egress.

Tucked under the stairs, next to Kelly's room, is the laundry area. As is par for the course, the washer and dryer are stacked to save space and nearly everything else is wall-mounted or stored on shelves.

The second Design Consideration I hope this post has demonstrated is: Unobstructed Space To Move. This will continue to be apparent throughout the rest of the house, but I feel like it's especially applicable on the ground floor where the walkways are wide and nothing is closed off from anything else in such a way that makes it difficult to access quickly.

[realtybymonica]

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[cyberphuck]

Collars Dot Com Ch 2: The Hammer of Thor

(Back to Chapter One) I shut the lid on the washer, started the cycle, then leaned against it as it filled. To the left the dryer thumped steadily, sounding like a particularly monotonous wedding night.

I'd changed the sheets on the bed, stuffed my bachelor-smelling comforter in the washer, gathered up the long-neglected laundry pile, dragged the comforter back out of the washer in favor of washing the clothes first, scrubbed the bathroom, sanitized the kitchen, vacuumed the living room, collected six thousand sticky coffee mugs and empty soda cans from my desk, wiped down every flat surface, and nearly thrown up twice.

I sat down on the arm of the couch, putting a hand over my eyes to try and keep them from falling out of my skull. I smelled like bleach wipes and hangover sweat and the coffee I'd spilled down the front of my shirt two hours ago and all I really wanted was to lay facedown in bed and sleep until rigor mortis set in.

Some time between changing the pillow cases and gagging on bile, I'd opened the DoorDash app on my phone and ordered two bottles of Gatorade, two containers of fruit salad, and two more bottles of Gatorade in case the first two and the vitamin C from the fruit weren't enough to purge the tequila and idiocy from my body.

I did stupid things when I was drunk. That's what had ended my last relationship, hadn't it? I'd gone out for drinks with some of the guys from work, ended up doing jello shots with a bunch of college girls, and sent a picture of my dick to everyone on my contact list-- including my sister-- with the caption 'THE HAMMER OF THOR!'

I'd woken up the next morning with a variety of responses waiting for me. From my boss, 'you're lucky you're the only one I can rely on to turn in scripts on time,' and from Alyssa: 'I'm tired of your immature bullshit.'

My sister had sent a thumbs-up emoji.

It wasn't the first time Alyssa and me had gotten in an argument over how I spent my free time, and I thought an apology and giving her some space to cool off would keep things rattling along. Instead she dropped her copy of my apartment key in my mailbox, changed her relationship status on Facebook, and posted several memes about finding her flame and not letting anyone hold her back anymore.

Then lockdown had started, my entire department had been sent home to work remotely, all of my meals came from no-contact DoorDash deliveries, and if I wanted to hang out and drink with the guys from work, I had to do it over Zoom. I hadn't realized how much I'd relied on visits from Alyssa to motivate me to give a shit about what my apartment looked like until...

Well, until about 2pm today.

This was going to be the kick in the ass that I needed, I decided. I wasn't gonna keep the Pet I'd ordered, but I wasn't going to mix alcohol and online shopping again, either, and I was gonna clean up after myself and have people over again. Or better yet, go out. See people. Meet people. Shave every day.

Someone hit the buzzer in the downstairs lobby. I got up to hit the unlock button by the front door, got another whiff of stale coffee, and jogged into my bedroom to try to find a clean shirt so I didn't look like a complete slob for the DoorDash guy. I tossed the dirty shirt into the laundry corner, stopped, picked it up and put it into the hamper, and pulled on an ancient band tee, the screen printing long since faded away into nothing. By the time I emerged from the bedroom, DoorDash was already knocking.

Usually I only knew my order had arrived by the swish of a plastic bag being dumped on my mat and the driver's footsteps as he walked off. But I had to sign something, I guess. They'd used to make you sign for stuff, before. I turned the deadbolt and opened the door.

There was a boy standing there.

Blond hair, big eyes, freckles and a pretty mouth that was currently occupied by some kind of black rubber gag. Behind him was a man with a moving dolly stacked high with boxes labeled 'COLLARS.COM.' Behind him was pretty much every single one of my neighbors, all out to grab their mail and pick up their newspapers and check the hallway for werewolves at once.

Fuck.

"Delivery," the man said, looking supremely bored. "For--"

"Yeah, uh, yeah, come in," I said quickly, backing out of the doorway and holding the door wide. The boy stepped through first, then his chaperone with the dolly, and I thought about how I was going to have to either find a new apartment or somehow keep living in this one without ever making eye contact with any of my neighbors ever again.

The man set the dolly upright and plucked a chunky black device from his belt, shoving it at me. "Just use the pen to sign," he said, indicating a thin plastic stylus swinging from the device by a tether.

"Right, uh, so, there was kind of a--" I began weakly, trying to give the device back.

"Hit 'enter,'" the man said. The boy had been wearing a sort of black smock, tied at the back, and his chaperone was taking it off. The black pants came off too, and the boy was very much wearing absolutely nothing underneath them.

"This was-- I can't--" I tried again.

"Arms out," the man said to the boy, holding up his phone to take a picture. "Alright, turn." He glanced at me. "Press the pen down harder if it isn't doing it," he said.

"There has been," I said slowly and firmly, "a mistake."

The man looked at me. I looked back at him.

"Are you Brian Stink?" he asked.

"It's 'Stynch,'" I said automatically. "Listen, I bought all this by accident, I didn't really mean to--"

"The return policy is on the website," the man interrupted. "Can you sign the thing? I've got other deliveries."

"But I can't." A misshapen silence popped between us; I'd been expecting him to cut me off again. "I can't, uh, take him, really."

"I can't put him back in the van," the man said. "I've already sent Proof of Delivery to the dispatcher, and I can't just stick him back there while I finish all my other deliveries. By the time I got him back to the hub, all the handlers'd be gone for the day. Sign," he enunciated, "the thing."

"Alright, fine, fuck," I sighed, scribbling something approximate to my signature on the heavy device and watching it struggle to accept my name with technology from 1992. I slapped it back into the man's hand, trying to show my severe annoyance with him. He wasn't phased. "I'll see you again tomorrow when you come to pick him up," I told him.

"I'm off tomorrow." He yanked the dolly out from underneath the tower of shipping boxes and turned to let himself out. "Enjoy your purchase and have a nice day."

I glared at the closed door for a while, entertaining all my fantasies of letting his employers know I was Very Offended and that they had better do something to make up for it, and receiving an email from the CEO begging for my forgiveness.

Maybe even a phone call. We're so sorry. We're so sorry. The mean delivery driver has been reprimanded and fired-- no, that was too cruel, not with the economy the way it was. He probably had a family to feed. We have sat him down and told him he has been a Very Bad Boy. Yeah.

I locked the deadbolt. And the horse you rode in on, I thought viciously, turned around, and remembered there was an extremely undressed Pet standing next to my shoe rack. The room congealed around me a little, going from the hot soup of righteous anger to the greasy leftovers of what the fuck am I going to do now in an instant.

God, he looked good.

I had been expecting him to be a little plainer than the profile picture I'd glimpsed in a drunken haze the night before. Nobody was supposed to look as perfect as their headshots, that's what Photoshop was for. But there he was, smooth and blemishless, the same buttery curls, the sprinkling of freckles like cinnamon on a macchiato. The mouth, which was still stoppered by the rubber gag whose straps were beginning to leave red marks in his cheeks. He swallowed awkwardly around it and looked at me.

I stepped forward, reaching behind his head and feeling for a clasp. The strap was stiff and new, the price tag still stuck across the cheap plastic. "This thing smells like a used tire shop," I muttered, picking the tag off and undoing the buckle. "Probably tastes like one too."

I pulled the gag out of his mouth. It was a couple inches long, wet and slick where it'd been pressing against his tongue. I wrinkled my nose at it and set it on top of the boxes. They could take that back, too. "How long have you had that thing in your mouth? Do you want a glass of water?"

The boy's mouth puckered; he wiped saliva off his chin with the back of his hand. "Yes, please."

I went to the kitchen, took down a glass, turned on the tap and let in run until it was cold. My coffee mugs were still piled in the sink, looking at me accusingly with sticky eyes. I ignored them and returned to the living room to find the boy standing just where I'd left him.

"Here." I put the glass in his hands. "Come on and sit on the couch."

I discovered, then, that it was possible for someone to sensually drink a glass of plain tap water. The movement of his throat and the sound of his swallowing was almost obscene. Maybe it was just because he was naked, or because I knew what he was for, but the lovely pink mouth was definitely in the lead for 'reasons I was about to make decisions with my dick.' I knew, when I reached out, that just touching his mouth wouldn't be enough. I promised myself I just wanted to feel the shape of it, his lips against the ball of my thumb, but I had wanted that mouth since I saw it on the website, had clicked yes and yes and  yes because I hadn't cared what I'd have to pay to get it. I cupped my palm against his cheek and he leaned into it, looking at me, and I was pushing forward without looking at the price.

I kissed him because I wanted to feel the softness of his lips, the texture of them against my tongue, the sweet sound as we parted. There was a little hesitation when he opened his mouth to mine, as if he wasn't quite sure of it, like the sensation of my tongue against his was new for him. I held him still with a hand against the nape of his neck, where the finest curls of his hair tickled against my fingers, and let him get used to what it felt like to be kissed by me.

By the time I let him go, his breath had gone a little short and there was color in his cheeks and down his neck to his collarbone. His lips were still slightly parted, and I slid my thumb into his mouth. He made a soft sound as I pressed down on his tongue and bottom lip. He made that sound again when I pulled him forward for another kiss, and he slipped off the couch and down to his knees in front of me before I could even form an image of what I wanted.

Now he was looking up at me through his eyelashes and wetting his upper lip with his tongue. I took his chin in my hand because-- I don't know, I wanted to look at him, wanted to stay in the moment of anticipation forever, but with my other hand I took out my stiffening cock for him because I wanted it in his mouth.

He took the head between his lips, delicately, like kissing the first bite of a ripe peach, tongueing the flesh. He took the shaft in his hand and drew upward and I felt a throb of pleasure, my cock bobbing when he pulled away. He looked up at me again and I watched him take me into his mouth in one long, delicious slide, lips and tongue working as he sucked. He lifted his head, taking in a breath, then down again and I could feel myself in the back of his throat. Another shudder of pleasure, releasing in a groan.

I leaned my head back, listening to the sound of his mouth on my cock and riding each rise in tension, each a little bit stronger, a little bit longer than the last. I held my breath to make the pleasure hit deeper, letting it out when I was coming close to the edge. My back and thighs were tensing, wanting to thrust upwards; it began as a soft rhythm, then grew more and more insistent until I braced a hand against the back of his head to fuck his mouth.

I twisted my fingers into his hair, fucking into the friction I wanted, faster and harder, trying to come up short before I climaxed but tumbling over the edge anyway, coming hard with a hoarse, cracked groan.

I felt him swallow twice, then wrap his fingers around my aching cock and pull slowly upwards. I sucked in a breath, wincing, and put out a hand to stop him before he yanked my organs out of my body. "Enough," I panted. "Enough. I'm done, I'm good." He let me go. I took a few more steadying breaths, blinking up at the ceiling,  and alternated saying "god" and "fuck" a half dozen times until I was able to think clearly again. It might have been several hours. I don't know. When I finally pulled myself together, I looked down at him still kneeling there.

"So," I said. "What's your name?"

He smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. "My name is Ren." Kofi - Donate - AO3

[ottawarealtor]

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[missmagooglie]

This is a stupid thing to be annoyed about, but annoyed about it I am.

There is no way Buck's loft has two bathrooms. It is a loft STUDIO apartment - not even a 1 bedroom, a 0 bedroom. If you saw a real estate listing for a 0 bed 2 bath apartment, you would be like "That's insane!" And you'd be right. Because no one would build an apartment like that! It would be ridiculous!

I am not sure how repeated canon confirmation that Buck's bathroom is on the first floor made some people - who presumably thought Buck's bathroom was upstairs next to his lofted sleeping space - conclude that the downstairs bathroom must be in addition to the imagined upstairs bathroom, but there is just no way that is true. The enclosed upstairs space is most likely a closet. If Buck's really lucky, maybe there’s a stacked washer/dryer unit up there.

I don't know why this is sticking in my craw so much, but the assumption that Buck must have 2 bathrooms rather than needing to walk downstairs to pee is just... idk. It's completely detached from reality. It hits the same button as when people write something that makes it clear they just have absolutely no idea how money works.

Anyway. Buck only has 1 bathroom, pass it on. End of rant.